


The Closeness of the Stars of Heaven to Heaven

by tmelange



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:45:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snapshot of Immortality and other indecipherables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Closeness of the Stars of Heaven to Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in July 2001, updated November 2005.

Where are we tonight, you ask? I don't know exactly. Probably Seacouver . . . though maybe not. When? I don't know that either. Yesterday, today, tomorrow—time is a myriad of bifurcating paths in the Borgesian way, as you are well aware. What I do know, and can tell you, is that we are in a seedy area of a large city, caught in the middle of a sweltering midsummer's night; that it is raining hard; that Methos, the world's oldest Immortal at this time and in this place, is running down a deserted street as if all the hounds of hell are nipping at his heels, and that another Immortal—Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod—is chasing him. I don't know why.

But students, that is exactly what we shall find out!

These Immortals of Earth . . . They are a _fascinating_ species. Incomprehensible, some would say. Riveting. Yes, _riveting._ That is it exactly.

Now students, pay attention: This is what is happening. It’s terrible, harsh, but I have no fear of telling these things to you. I do not pretend to _understand_ the rationale behind any of it. I encourage you to draw your own conclusions.

Picture this: There is a dirty, smelly street down by the waterfront. This street is deserted in the way that city streets are often deserted during the commission of a suspicious act. The light from a bright moon roams, creating rainbows in the motor oil that floats in accumulating puddles of water on the pavement. It is raining steadily—an electrical rain of sharp lightning and rolling thunder—and Methos' footsteps are loud in the preternatural silence between thunderclaps. His sneakers make a smacking sound as they collide with the shallow pools of water, shattering rainbows. He is running hard— _running_ —and Duncan MacLeod is chasing him. Duncan lets him run, wants him to run, to wear himself out. Duncan smiles grimly as he runs even harder after the old Immortal, knowing that Methos cannot run much farther, knowing that the ends of the earth would not be far enough.

"You coward!" Duncan hollers viciously, his voice heavy with rage and frustration. "Every step you make me take you'll pay me for!"

Methos does not look back.

He keeps running, as fleet as a deer, as determined as a hawk at the hunt, his only thought escape—to escape from his pursuer. But the driving rain, the balmy night air, the indigo blackness of the night sky with its latticework of heavenly bodies all conspire against him. Water flows in rivulets from his head and into his eyes, obstructing his vision; there isn't enough cool air to pull into his heaving lungs; the stars are too bright, providing not a shadow near enough for sanctuary.

 _Curse this damned city and its smelly sea water, its rotting wood!_ he thinks to himself savagely as he turns a corner. _Better to have been caught in the middle of town, he mutters darkly, easier to escape in a crowd of people._ He stumbles to a halt, looking around quickly and noting that Duncan has yet to turn the corner. His speed— _Thank God_ —has gained him a short moment of respite. He wipes the water from his face with a soggy sleeve as the relentless rain beats down upon his head.

Wearily, he bends over at the waist. His torso is parallel to the ground and he is panting harshly for breath. He thinks, _What best to do?_ He looks up, marks his position next to a building that looks quite abandoned, as do all the buildings on this city block except for the seedy hotel of dubious repute at the corner. An idea occurs to him. _Perhaps..._

It takes a split second to make the decision. He rushes to the dilapidated wooden door of the nearest building and jerks hard on the doorknob.

It is locked, secured against trespassers—but not for long. Methos backs away from the door then runs at it, full tilt, kicking the door in viciously. He rushes into the building's foyer as he hears the inevitable pounding against concrete, the violent splash of footsteps running through puddles—the inimical sound of his own doom bearing down upon him.

There are stairs in the building, of course, box spiraling up eight floors. He takes them two at a time.

"Methos!"

Panting, within sight of the door to the roof, Methos risks a look back as he hears Duncan burst through the front door of the building to a chorus of booming thunder, seeming as much a part of the surrounding storm as the rain.

"Methos! God damn it!"

The words echo violently up to the ceiling, bouncing off the walls like the ricochet of a gunshot. The manic sound of it would have made anyone stumble in fear or loathing—but not Methos. Much he knows of fear, of the abject terror of the hunted. The voice, that terrible voice, is not his undoing. It is his sneakers that betray him—the slippery contact of wet rubber on a slick tile step.

Methos falls backwards, hands reaching out desperately, futilely, to catch hold of anything to stave off his inevitable decline, tumbling in a cacophony of arms and legs down a whole flight of stairs like the inevitable falling of a dead star. His sword—previously hidden, pressed close to his body like a lover—pierces his side, and there is blood. He is bleeding. And the hounds of hell are coming, coming.

Duncan is bearing down upon him. He is close.

However, Methos is not done yet. The wound is only painful, and pain is a dear old friend to him. What Immortal has ever bowed down to pain—transitory, momentary pain? He struggles to his feet, hand to side to staunch the blood, grabbing his sword off the floor and rushing up the last flight of stairs. He bursts through the metal door and onto the roof—a roof like a raised platform suspended in space.

It has stopped raining at some point during his climb up from the street, suddenly, as summer storms sometimes do, but the lightning still illuminates the sky at odd moments, in random staccato bursts, and the rumbling voice of the thunder can still be heard, loud and insistent. Harshly bright, the stars shine like tiny diamonds suspended in velvet blackness—mysterious, indecipherable, terrible—terribly lovely. And the full opalescent moon with her garment of glowing spheres watches in wide-eyed amazement as Methos rushes to the roof's edge, his footsteps muffled on the cushy tar of the floor. He looks across the airy expanse to the roof of the next building over. It is not terribly far away, but it is far enough. Methos intends to jump over there—he has only moments to accomplish the doing of it.

Methos is ninety-nine percent positive that Duncan cannot make the jump after him. Duncan is bigger, thicker, his weight would not carry as well, would not allow him to propel himself far enough, he thinks. Methos intends to jump to the next roof and to the roof after that, and by the time Duncan would be able to run back down the stairs to the street to pick up his trail, he would be gone to safety. Duncan is very smart, and Methos figures he will realize upon inspecting the expanse between the two buildings that he cannot make the jump. If Duncan doesn't realize that fact—well, Methos is sure that someone will scrape his dead body off the pavement.

At least, that had been the plan. That had been the plan _before_ he landed on the keen edge of his own sword. Methos sighs in frustration as he presses his hand tightly to his side. He can feel the tingling, the prickling warmth of his Quickening trying to repair the damage, but with every movement he re-injures himself, reopens the wound. Can he still make the jump? Can he make the jump now that so much of his life's blood has leaked out of him like water? Methos is not sure, and he hesitates, wondering what would happen to him if _he_ were the one to fall to his death, realizing that dead, he would be a sitting duck—and that one moment's hesitation is his undoing.

"Methos!"

Reaching the roof and seeing Methos poised by the edge, Duncan yells his name out like an invective. Methos drops his sword and turns to make the jump, damning the consequences, but with a primal holler, the war cry of some by-gone age, Duncan overtakes him, tackles him from behind. Crazily, they tumble together to the soft tar that is the floor of the roof, a heated amalgamation of arms and legs. They are perilously close to the edge.

The pain that Methos feels as he hits the ground is tremendous. _Had he really thought himself its master?_ he wonders in a haze. There is a fire at his side, a raging inferno of bright hurt, but he has the presence of mind to attempt to roll, not to end up pinned underneath the Highlander. With the astigmatic vision of the mortally wounded, his eyes scan the area frantically for the location of his sword.

Between harsh exhalations of breath, the two Immortals rise up off the ground swinging swords of thunder and lightning.

This roof is a perfect place for a sword fight between Immortals. There is enough open space to allow for running, jumping and broad swings of a sword but also enough in the way of obstacles to provide cover to dodge an opponent. There is a dilapidated pigeon coop and a small chimney stack, a short shed of metal construction for storing tools and a series of poles of a middling height under a metal awning with fraying twine strung between for hanging laundry out to dry. And of course, all activity is neatly prescribed by the boundaries of the edge of the platform, much in the same way as velvet rope prescribes the action in a boxing ring.

Then, too, there is no one else on the roof to witness a Quickening.

"Give it up, Methos!" Duncan storms.

"Never, MacLeod! You'll have to kill me—if you can!"

"My pleasure, old man," Duncan responds with a derisive snicker. As sword meets sword, it is obvious to him that Methos is struggling. It is the blood—the crimson stain that colors the entire right side of Methos' body—that marks him as done. Begrudgingly, Duncan is impressed that the man is still on his feet, that he can still swing a sword at all. But Methos is fighting with his left hand and even if he hadn't been wounded near to death, Duncan knows he can beat him from that side. _Methos has always been rusty with the left,_ is his mental commentary. So Duncan draws his opponent in close with a quick flurry of strokes, then, with all his strength, pushes him away and back. Methos stumbles.

"You should have practiced more, old man," Duncan taunts as he swings his katana overhead and then down with a smashing, two-handed stoke that Methos barely manages to counter. The force of the blow drives Methos to one knee. Grimly, he looks up at Duncan with no hint of fear or resignation. "You're making this too easy," Duncan adds glibly.

Methos is panting hard, trying desperately to catch his breath, to ignore the blaze of pain that seems to consume the entire right side of his body. "Fuck you, MacLeod," he says harshly with an acrid bitterness that settles in the back of his throat like bile.

"Tsk, tsk," Duncan admonishes him facetiously as he switches his sword from his right to his left hand with a deft flick of the wrist. "Watch your language." He waggles a finger at his kneeling opponent—a finger that turns into a fist. Viciously, he punches the older Immortal, connecting fist to jaw with bone-crushing accuracy, sending Methos smashing into the side of the pigeon coop. "You're beginning to annoy me," Duncan says with a cold, hard sneer.

Methos struggles to get up, wondering frantically if there is anything he can pull out of the thin air to save himself, cursing a body that has betrayed him. He needs to buy himself some time, time to heal, he knows. Belatedly, he realizes that he should have jumped—even if it would have meant his death. He knows— _he knows_ —a bleeding wound is always worse than a quick death because it drains the strength right out of the body. Faster to recover from death, quicker to be restored to full faculties, than to suffer the lingering leeching, the slow prickling healing, of a mortal wound. If he had fallen to his death, Duncan would have been honor bound to wait until he revived before attacking, and he would have revived in perfect shape. Now, if he were to let Duncan kill him, there would be no guarantee that the man would allow him to wake up and continue the fight on more even footing. Methos knows he has miscalculated. Badly.

Then, suddenly, Duncan's sword is poised, pointing at his neck.

Bowing his head to conceal his frustration, Methos closes his eyes. Wearily, he asks, "Is this it, MacLeod? You've always wanted to take my head. I know you have. So do you. Just do it. Restore my faith in human nature." When he receives no answer, he opens his eyes, raises his head and bares his neck in challenge. He adds, mockingly, "You've always been so good at killing your friends."

"Bastard," Duncan spits out as he circles his kneeling opponent slowly, like a wolf circling a wounded lamb to look for the angle quickest to kill. "Say anything you want, old man," he adds, bitingly. "It won't make any difference. Tonight I take your lying head."

"Oh, that's right," Methos scoffs, "Duncan MacLeod of the fucking Clan MacLeod. Immortal hero, protector of the innocent, pristine embodiment of all that is good and right with the world." Methos sneers. "Self-righteous killer of friends."

"Shut up."

"Why? Does the truth hurt?"

"Shut up."

"Don't like your friends talking to you before you take their heads? Or maybe you want me to beg . . . like Richie?"

"Shut up!" Duncan yells as he knocks Methos back to the ground. The pommel of Duncan's sword connects with his jaw with a sharp, portentous crack. "Shut up, you goddamn son-of-a-bitch!"

Methos is prostrate on the ground, dazed and bleeding, and Duncan is standing a short ways away, breathing hard, an inferno of rage in the pit of his stomach. The incendiary words, the sticky night air, the bitter fighting . . . Duncan is beyond himself—way beyond—as beyond himself as the desert is beyond a single grain of sand. He looks down at Methos, at his crumpled form . . . the blood on his face . . . the vulnerable skin of his neck . . . the blinding whiteness of exposed skin. Duncan takes in everything about him, suddenly, in one big gulp.

The night air fills with an awful tension as Duncan entertains a dangerous desire.

 _I want him,_ Duncan realizes fiercely. _I have always_ wanted _him._

Methos struggles to raise his head with thoughts racing in every direction, trying desperately to figure out a way to extricate himself from this terrible situation. With Duncan standing over him, poised to cut off his head, he seems to be out of options, to have finally reached his last extremity. But wily, always wily, he thinks that there is something he still might do. He slumps back down to the ground in defeat, his head limp and ducked, his breath rattling in his chest harshly.

"Get up," Duncan says menacingly, advancing on him. "I will cut off your head, old man," he warns. "Get up and fight." He moves closer to Methos' prone body, using the tip of his sword to poke and prod.

"Get up!"

Methos gets up . . . like a viper.

Suddenly, coalescing in the night air is the bitter spite, and the dagger, and the hard presumptiveness, then the rising—the rising of the lowly that evens the scale.

It is an extraordinary feat of strength and timing, almost superhuman in light of his physical condition. "Now we're even!" Methos whispers fiercely, his bleeding face close to his startled opponent's as he puts all his weight behind the press of his dagger, tearing flesh, delving into the chewy muscles of Duncan's stomach. Duncan gasps harshly in pain and shock as warm blood bubbles around the opening in his flesh. Methos wrenches the blade up violently before he knees Duncan in the groin. As Duncan doubles over in a duplicity of pain, Methos pulls his short blade from Duncan's stomach and knocks him to the ground with a blow to the back of the head.

"Even, you son-of-a-bitch," Methos says tiredly as he drops the dagger and grabs his side to assuage the terrible pain and the bleeding there. He is dizzy, beset with a swirling vertigo and a terrible weakness in his limbs. He can barely keep his feet. Methos turns, makes his way slowly towards the edge of the roof and his sword. It is the time for swords.

"Methos."

 _Duncan!_ Methos spins around on his heels. He is not the only one with an iron constitution, the fortitude of a young god. Duncan is struggling to get up off the ground and Methos wastes precious seconds registering the fact that his opponent is not as incapacitated as he had intended. Duncan raises a blood-soaked hand from his stomach. "You're going to pay for this," he says through clenched teeth.

Stumbling, Methos turns and makes a last-ditch effort to reach his sword, but his efforts fall too far short as Duncan tackles him from behind.

Then they are on the ground again, rolling, fighting, punching, slapping, wrestling each other in a burgeoning conflagration. Duncan, red-hot and as intemperate as a bull, thinks only to subdue Methos by any means at his disposal. He wants Methos to pay for his deceptiveness, for stabbing him in the stomach, and especially for kicking him in the balls. And for a very short time, Methos gives as good as he gets. The playing field is more even now, both of them are injured, neither of them allowing their injuries to heal properly. For a while, Methos is able to keep Duncan at bay, but he is not as strong as Duncan and he has been hurt and bleeding for a greater length of time. Soon he starts to weaken. Too soon his arms lose their strength and his head begins to swim. Duncan, perceiving this weakness, pins his opponent to the ground, sitting on his stomach, pressing Methos' hands to the ground above his head.

Thus restrained, Methos is having a hard time keeping his eyes open—he has lost too much blood.

Duncan looks down at his opponent. Duncan is trembling on the edge of a black violence, in a derangement of conflicting desires. Suddenly, he lowers his head to Methos' neck and inhales deeply. He smells blood and sweat and maleness, and the poignancy of it all causes a rolling hunger to unfurl in the pit of his stomach, a hunger that flows from his stomach to his groin, growing his cock, making it as hard as stone. So close to Methos now, Duncan thinks only of his face, of being near to him, of the vast expanse of forgetful darkness around them, the infinite sky above. How he can do anything he wants. _Anything._ The sky is a spider's web of stars.

Methos is strangely passive throughout Duncan's dark epiphany, his lashes fluttering and his eyes watching, only watching, with a hooded, unfocused gaze. Duncan feels a burning heat rise up within him at the cool placidity in those eyes—a heat that seems to be centered in his stomach but which spirals outward to affect his every extremity, even the tips of his toes, even the tips of his fingers. He is hot. So hot! Duncan knows what he is going to do. Right now—with Methos. His intentions are written in broad strokes across his face, broadcast loudly by the lechery abroad in his eyes.

Their gazes meet, and lock, and unspoken volumes pass between them. Here, just like in any battle, there are spoils. They both know it. Duncan takes a moment to study the face of the one he intends to claim as prize. The situation appeals to his warrior's nature. He cannot help the tingling feeling of triumph that flutters in his chest. But then, Methos smiles suddenly—a tight little smile, mocking, and quite without fear. A small smile, offensively superior—a smile that says he knows that Duncan cannot resist him, could never resist him, a smile that says that even when he loses, he wins.

A strange tremor of violence passes through Duncan like the rolling thunder—and pushes him over the edge.

Enraged, his fist connects with Methos' jaw again. Methos grunts in pain as rainbow spots appear in front of his eyes. Duncan reaches for the collar of his T-shirt, grabs two handfuls and pulls the shirt in opposite directions.

The fabric tears. And falls away.

Methos' face is set in a grimace of bleak defiance, a stubborn look of rebellion, even though he is in such an extremity of circumstances, of pain. His flat gaze makes Duncan want to strike him yet again, as it always has. Would he never see the man cower? Duncan rages silently. Now Duncan knows why Kronos so needed to dominate him, needed him always at his right hand. Why Kronos could not bear to live without him. Duncan feels exactly like that. So exactly that it frightens him into a place of startling clarity, the violent rising within him of the insatiable need to _possess._

A long moment of absolute silence passes as his acidic gaze scours Methos' face. This is the time for halting madness.

But Duncan has no ability to stop himself. The galloping heat in his gut imposes upon him, upon this moment, a future as irrevocable as the past.

He knows what he is going to do.

Duncan reaches out, grabs Methos by the arm and hauls him up off the ground. Quickly, before Methos can take a breath, Duncan twists that arm behind his back, dislocating the shoulder in one deft move. Methos screams at the suddenness of the pain, in macabre counterpoint to a deafening clap of thunder.

Viciously, Duncan pushes, maneuvers Methos across the roof to the short chimney stack by the metal shed. He shoves him against the brick, doubles him over the small column. He brings the dagger to hand from its sheath in the waistband at the back of his jeans—ironically, the same dagger that Methos used to cut open his stomach. Duncan uses it to cut the belt from Methos' pants. His opponent's struggles—weak and disoriented struggles—only serve to incite Duncan to more and greater violence. He savagely elbows Methos in the center of his back to quell him, knocking the breath right out of his chest and sending him spiraling into another vortex of bright pain. Duncan uses the time that Methos spends dazed to maneuver him, to jerk his jeans down over his slim hips.

Then with one hand, Duncan loosens his own jeans, wriggling them down his thighs, freeing his engorged and throbbing cock. His cock is so hard it hurts—his whole groin hurts, as it hasn't since he was a very young man. His cock seems enraged, seems to have a mind of its own. Already excited, a large drop of opalescent cream glistens at the tip of the head. Large and hard, the shaft bridges the small distance between their bodies, slapping at white flesh in anticipation of entry as Duncan frantically arranges his clothes, Methos, himself. Duncan quickly forces a knee between muscled thighs, prying them open. Positioning himself, he uses both hands to delve into the crevice, separating the hard cheeks, allowing his cock to press for entry. Then, with a violent forward movement and an elbow pressed cruelly against the back of Methos' neck, Duncan slams himself hard against and into him.

Methos stiffens at the invasion, makes a choking sound, something like a muffled scream, as Duncan's cock rips through him.

Pumping, his body bucking in frenzy, Duncan plows in and out, in and out. The tight warmth surrounding his cock drives him crazy—he is insane with the need to move harder, faster, deeper. He feels such a crescendo of escalating sensation—it is like a tsunami, a deadly tidal wave that sweeps everything out to sea. With every tight stroke, every long and tight stroke, Duncan knows he cannot last much longer, feels his release come upon him, overtake him. He reaches around Methos, pulls him up and back by the neck like the string on a bow. Duncan's hips pound against his ass, and his cock slams in and out, plundering the small hole, tearing the soft inner lining. With another soundless scream, Methos arches his back in agony. Duncan buries his face in his hair as he explodes, deep and long.

Methos is gasping for air, gasping, as though he is drowning. It is a full minute before Duncan can loosen his grip on the man's body, can withdraw his wilted cock from Methos' tight opening, loosing a river of blood and semen—a full minute for him to realize that he is holding a lifeless body pressed tightly to his chest.

+

Some say to love is to live in magic, but students, not everything in this magical world is quite what it seems. The night has a hidden face and the darkness its own painted veil—and a thousand reflections lie between the twilight and the dawn. This is what happens next:

Slowly and so very carefully, Duncan lowers Methos to the ground. He pulls up his own pants, pulls off his bloodstained shirt. Bare-chested, he smoothes down hair that has become wild about his face, re-fastens the clip at the back of his neck. Then he kneels beside that lifeless body, raises a hand to touch a face so calm, so young-seeming in death, but like the pausing of the sand in an hourglass turned over and waiting for time to run backwards, he stops himself.

Instead, he pulls off Methos' shoes, removes his blood-soaked jeans. Naked skin and blinding luminescence assail his senses, but Duncan refuses to be distracted. There are things to do before Methos wakes up. Tossing the jeans to the side, he rises and makes his way quickly towards the door leading into the building. He only looks back at Methos once—at a body brilliant, smooth, inexplicably unblemished—and his expression is inscrutable.

Returning in a few short minutes with a duffel bag and a blanket, he drops the bag by the door and walks purposefully to the very center of the roof. There, he looks up at the clear night sky, gauging the possibility of more rain, listening for the familiar thunder, watching for the harsh lightning. Satisfied that the storm has passed, he spreads the blanket on the ground.

Then he goes to get Methos.

He kneels and does what he had not allowed himself to do before. Softly, reverently, he touches skin of evening primrose. Methos seems so very much to him like a flower whose beauty can only be fully understood by the diffused light of a bright moon. Duncan picks him up gently, carries him to the place he has made ready and lays him down.

And too, Duncan removes the rest of his own clothing, his pants and his sneakers, and lays his naked body down on his side next to Methos. To wait. To watch. But even pressed up against Methos' side, Duncan feels himself too far adrift. He moves, seeking closer and better contact.

Propping himself up on an elbow, Duncan allows his eyes to roam, to admire the spare masculine beauty of Methos' chest. With light caresses, a gentle touch, he traces the hard and strong lines. Moving over him, around him like smoke, Duncan softly licks the clinging tears from his eyelashes, lightly tastes the skin of his throat where the smell of rain still lingers, trails a finger over a face quiescent in a shadow of agony that is delight beyond life or death.

"My beloved is mine, and I am his," Duncan whispers reverently, placing his head upon Methos' chest, waiting patiently for the first flutterings of life to return his love to him. Duncan stays that way, lying upon Methos with all his weight, crushing him. He wants nothing _more._ He is buried in Methos' body, has put roots down there, grows there. He can no longer find how they are separate.

What has he ever done to deserve this star, this angel, fallen from heaven and into his arms? he wonders. What has he ever done to deserve such happiness?

Then sometime, between one scattered moment and the next, Methos takes his first startled inhalation of breath.

Trembling with a familiar anticipation, Duncan raises his head, reaches out and cups his face, resting the fingertips of his hand lightly on his cheekbone, thumb below the chin. Duncan leans toward him intensely, gazes into eyes lighter than his own brown orbs as they flutter open and focus on him. In the diffused moonlight, Methos' eyes look almost green, and Duncan smiles fondly at the thought. Methos has the eyes of a chameleon, Duncan thinks, and the light always changes them; sometimes green, sometimes brown, other times hazel—but the love that lives in those eyes for him never changes.

So very silently, Duncan loses himself in that flickering gaze. This one quiet moment—everything that has passed before is stripped and laid bare. Transformed. Transcended. Understood. There is nothing that needs to be said. No words are necessary. Methos' eyes are like a mirror reflecting a blizzard of emotion, a blur of want, an audacity of trust that will allow in love what would never be tolerated in hate or in fear—and every reflected emotion is reflected right back.

This one moment, perhaps most of all, is unfathomable. Like the stars—the stars that go on, and on, forever. What mere mortal can comprehend the longings, the desires, of such beings? Understand the constant need for novelty, replacement, substitution, multiplicity, simultaneity—the desperate lust for more or different sensations, the unfathomable, unfathomable needs of those that can live . . . and live again.

"Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm," Duncan says softly, kissing Methos lightly on the lips. "For love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame."

Methos groans loudly. "Geez, not more bad poetry . . . Duncan, get up would you? Are you trying to smother me?" Methos squirms irritably. "You're getting fat, Highlander. I can't breathe…."

Duncan ignores him, wondering to himself in facetious good humor how he could have ended up loving such a terribly ornery, unromantic old man.

"Duncan . . ." Methos whines, his laughing eyes fixed on Duncan's face, "the ground is hard, and you're the fat one. Why are you always trying to use me as a pillow? Why am I always on the bottom?"

And suddenly, he isn't. Duncan finds himself lying on his back with a naked Methos astride his hips, not sure exactly how they had changed positions—and not caring.

Methos cocks his head to the side, raises an eyebrow. "You would never have caught me if I hadn't fallen down those damn stairs," he grouses, his pride injured just a little.

"I would have caught you," Duncan says simply. "I will always catch you." So strongly he feels that Methos could never run so far that he could not catch him. So confident is he that the ends of the earth are not far enough to keep them apart.

"Well, you owe me a case of beer, in any event," Methos says smugly as he settles his hips, presses his groin down to more closely connect with Duncan's own. "I knew you couldn't resist," he adds as he leans forward to nuzzle Duncan's neck. "Provoking you is like taking candy from a baby."

"A case of beer," Duncan agrees readily. Though their elaborate game with its equally elaborate rules is important, Duncan has no mind for it right now. He will agree to anything, so consumed is he with the erotic sensation of having Methos pressed against him, with having their hardening cocks trapped between bodies oiled with a light sheen of sweat, with having Methos tenderly lick the salt from the hollow of his throat with a tickling tongue.

Duncan lifts his hands to the back of Methos' head, presses and strokes the base of his neck, burying his fingers in his lover's short hair, pulling his face up and drenching his lips in long, passionate kisses. Too many sweet sensations, the pressure between them begins to build once more, different this time, more tender but still urgent and tight, like the tight fear of finding something thought to be irrevocably lost and never wanting to lose it again—the building pressure of a crucial soul-love. And more than love. So much more. What is between them has always been deeper, harsher than any ordinary, everyday _love._

Duncan knows what it is to want Methos constantly, with a voraciousness that is undeniable. He has always _wanted_ him. From the first moment they met, he has wanted Methos the way he wants air. And has been wanted in return.

Methos' hands find his face, his mouth. Flushed and excited, Duncan sucks at his long fingers, shudders with anticipation as he feels hot breath whisper in his ear, shudders again as one tender earlobe is captured by mouth, caressed by tongue, nibbled on by sharp teeth.

Their bodies—damp with sweat and heat—press tightly against each other, granite-hard cocks trapped between hips writhing in desperate need. Methos travels down Duncan the way he would travel down a garden path, slowly, avidly, paying a reverential attention to every small detail, licking, biting, sucking. Making his way down. Blowing on the hair of his chest. Down. Making the nipples as erect as small stones. Down. Running his face against the soft skin of his belly, nuzzling, licking the small indenture that is his belly button. Making his way down.

Duncan's pubic hair is as coarse and aromatic as summer grass. Methos buries his face in that hair, breathing deeply as one hand restrains Duncan's jerking hips and the other wraps itself around the thick barrel of Duncan's cock, pulling back the foreskin, exploring the texture, coaxing pearls of moisture from the tip and spreading that creamy liquid around the head.

And lightly, Methos begins to lick his balls.

Gasping, Duncan closes his eyes, arches his back helplessly as a chaotic ecstasy, a burning heat ignites in his groin. Methos' tongue is insistent, _skillful._ It is probing him in exactly the right places, around and around his balls, and lapping, fierce, rhythmic, along his stem, and below that, licking and sucking at the tight rim of his anus, pressing his tongue to the small hole, working it open, moistening that dark place while his hand strokes the length of Duncan's cock, jerking up and down in a motion as inexorable as time.

Begging, sighing, Duncan moans loudly as Methos slowly slips a finger inside, then two, while his mouth takes over for his hand and engulfs Duncan's hugely engorged tip, then the entire shaft. Methos begins a rhythmic pumping with his fingers—now there are three fingers inside—and a ceaseless, miraculous suction with his mouth full of cock. The most amazing and cunning fingers, the most unavoidable mouth in all the world.

Desperate and greedy, Methos sucks hard, like a man dying of thirst. And Duncan feels like he is dying too—or will die or has died. He is close. So close! He grabs a handful of Methos' hair, pulling, trying to hold that mouth in place as his hips jerk up and down frantically. Methos clasps Duncan's jerking hips with both hands, releases his cock from his mouth just as Duncan, with an impassioned exclamation, explodes like a volcano, shooting his nectar into Methos' waiting hands.

Quickly, Methos smoothes the creamy liquid over his own cock. Quickly, he fondles the crevice in Duncan's buttocks, fiercely he pushes Duncan's legs up until they are resting on his shoulders.

Using strong fingers to spread his cheeks, Methos slowly, slowly sheathes himself in Duncan.

It is almost too much for him, the tightness, the heat, the incredible dark heat that enfolds him, engulfs him, as if it will never let him out. Slowly, Methos sets a rhythm of long and deep strokes, shuddering with the exquisite _feel_ of it all. He tries desperately to keep control of the pressure rising in the pit of his stomach as he picks up his pace, moving faster, harder, deeper, slamming into Duncan's body, trying to reach that one special place . . . finding it, banging into it again, and again.

Deliriously, Duncan calls his name and taunts and urges him on.

"It feels—" Methos gasps.

"You feel—" His breath catches in his throat.

"—so good!" he yells, slamming up against him. He hesitates for just an instant, resting, before sliding back into a slow rhythm, an aggressive, escalating motion.

"No . . ." Duncan whispers, his voice deep and low in his throat. Begging, "Don't stop . . . Methos . . . Please . . . Don't stop…."

Now Methos is in full control. He leans over, captures Duncan's begging mouth with his own lips, sucks on his tongue as he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts himself home.

Duncan is seeing stars. And Methos sees stars. Both of them are very much like the hot stars, passionately burning. "Oh . . ." Methos groans against Duncan's mouth. "Come on . . ." he pleads. "Come on, Duncan . . . Duncan, come on . . . DuncanDuncanDuncan . . . Come—"

A spasm as huge as the building below them shakes Duncan to his roots. He roars, even as the sky explodes, stars falling from the heavens in a blinding cascade. Duncan feels as if he joins them there, like a heavenly body, exploding, with a white-hot heat, and the thunder pealing like the drums of paradise.

Methos—he is having the orgasm of a young god. The stars are not just moving. They are streaking, flying across the sky at ten times their normal speed, hurtling through space a thousand times faster than usual, as he shoots his semen into the very center of him.

Spent, they lie pressed together like a single statute chiseled from the same piece of marble. Neither wants to think about moving. Neither wants to separate, one from the other. But with a sigh, Methos does finally move to allow his wilted cock to slide out of Duncan's body, to allow Duncan's legs to slip off his shoulders. Satisfied, he positions himself close to Duncan's side, throws a possessive leg over him and an arm, and lays his head on his shoulder.

"My back hurts," Duncan says softly.

"Better you than me," Methos responds indifferently, his sentence punctuated by a loud yawn.

Duncan shakes his head in amusement, kissing Methos' forehead fondly.

Time passes and Duncan, watching the sky, is sure that Methos has fallen asleep on him. Stroking his back lightly, Duncan guesses that there is only a scant hour before day breaks. He does not want to think about getting up but needs to rustle up something for the two of them to wear, either from the duffel bag or their stash of clothing downstairs. In particular, he needs to have something ready for Methos to put on. If he leaves it to his mate, he knows, Methos would probably walk all the way home completely naked just to get back at him for trashing his jeans and his favorite T-shirt. There is no rush to get up, Duncan realizes. After all, he and Methos own the building, the whole block, actually. This location is one of many around the city, around the world in fact, that the two of them own, keep stocked with supplies and use sporadically, depending on the vagaries of their special game. So they could stay and sleep, but Duncan, always pragmatic, thinks it would be the better part of discretion to get back home before dawn.

But Methos has other ideas.

"What are you doing?" he says sleepily as Duncan moves to reposition him.

"Going to get you something to wear."

"Not yet," he says, lifting his head and resting a smoldering gaze on Duncan's face. He is erect again. And all coherent thought flies from Duncan's brain like a migration of butterflies.

Duncan reaches out, puts a hot hand on Methos' cock, where he has risen up, starting the passionate sequence all over again, roles reversed. This time, it is Methos who is writhing and pummeling Duncan's back, crying out for more, and Duncan who is shuddering in chaotic ecstasy as he pushes himself into Methos' tightness, trying to control the thundering in his stomach, the impossible, building pressure. Tingles and sharp pin prickles of unbelievable pleasure shoot down their spines, through their veins, through their cocks. Detonating. Exploding. Collapsing. Spent.

Of course, this time, it is Duncan who falls asleep on Methos' chest as the gray dawn breaks.

+

Duncan rouses slowly, reluctantly, in the hazy pre-dawn light. The gentle nibbling on the tender skin of his neck tells him that Methos wants his attention. Duncan turns his head slightly but does not open his eyes. The tickling sensation of lips, of teeth and tongue, blazes a heated path from throat to ear until a softly whispered word, "Watcher," tugs at Duncan's attention.

"Don't look," Methos chides gently.

"Mmm—" Duncan mumbles, resisting the urge to turn his head to see who is watching them. Probably Joe. Or not, he thinks. And what does it matter? Another couple would probably have run for cover to escape the prying eyes of an uninvited public, but not Duncan, not Methos. _Let them watch,_ Duncan thinks. Let the whole world watch them weave a patchwork quilt of love and of passion.

Duncan catches Methos' eye. Sees the deviousness there and knows its import: _Certain things are more fun when you have an audience._

And suddenly, Duncan finds himself flipped and on the bottom of a passionate press of arms and legs, a devouring assault of lips and mouth on tender skin, a scandalous symphony of noise—of sucking, of whimpering, of moaning. Duncan opens his legs wantonly and pulls Methos' head to his groin, arching his back in tumultuous ecstasy as his cock is engulfed in moist wetness. Methos starts sucking hard, greedily coaxing the milky essence right out of him, as they let the envious world watch.

Pride, gone the way of the wind. Shameless. Note, students, that they are as shameless as children. And in love. A love clearly calcified, crystallized. Hardened and built upon. Built upon and on. And on. A love that goes on and up, up into the sky and is written there like the burn, the white-hot light of a trillion stars. _Duncan and Methos forever._

A love calcified, crystallized. Hardened. _Immortalized._

And that concludes our lesson for today.

 _finis_

**Author's Note:**

> The poetry that Duncan quotes in Part 2 is from the Song of Solomon.
> 
> The title _The Closeness of the Stars of Heaven to Heaven_ is an adaptation of a bit of Vietnamese poetry (The closeness of the sun of heaven to heaven) which came to my attention through a radio program on the book _Spring Essence_ translated by John Balaban. The book is a collection of poetry by Ho Xuan Huong, an eighteenth-century woman poet.


End file.
